


The Wild North

by StanningJay



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Consensual Sex, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, First Sex Scene Ever Achievement Unlocked, I am so sorry, King of the North, Lord of Winterfell, M/F, Sex, Stannis Lives, Storm of Swords, Vaginal Sex, a song of ice and fire - Freeform, a wild sex scene appears!, asoif - Freeform, clash of kings, do not copy to another site, idk if they have a ship name, jon snow and val - Freeform, one true king
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-01-29 01:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StanningJay/pseuds/StanningJay
Summary: This is an alternate timeline diverging from the point when Stannis asks Jon to be his lord of Winterfell. In this scenario, Jon accepts the offer. From here the story will roughly follow the events of the novels but with divergence as a result of this choice.Hope you enjoy :)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Val
Comments: 24
Kudos: 87





	1. I.

Jon Snow flexed the fingers on his burned hand, and then adjusted the strap of his thick gloves. He avoided looking at Stannis Baratheon and his red woman, trying to choose his words.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I don’t understand.”

“Spare me, Snow,” snapped Stannis, his voice like ice cracking. “You know full well what I’m asking.”

Jon looked up, met the king’s steely blue eyes and sighed. “Your Grace,” he began carefully, “If I take your meaning, you’re asking me to forswear myself.”

“You’ve done it before, Snow, if the talk is true.”

That cut. Jon’s fingers flexed again, as he tried to keep his voice steady. “It was a plan. I was following orders. Your Grace, I held the wall against—“

“Yes, yes. Aemon swears up and down that you were all that stood between the black brothers and the fury of the north,” Stannis looked Jon up and down, his brow raised. “Only a fool would impugn the honor of Aemon Targaryen, or I’d find it very hard to believe.”

Here, Stannis paused to grind his teeth. He looked northward, out over the wall that Jon had walked so many times.

Jon said nothing, waiting for the King to speak.

“They say you’re not a fool, Snow,” he said. “From what I’ve seen so far, I agree.”

“You’re kind to say so, Your Grace.”

“Spare me,” said Stannis again. “I don’t need your courtesies. I get more than my bellyful of that from my Lords. Words are wind, Jon Snow, and wind isn’t going to help me with my war.”

“Which war?” Asked Jon. “The war for the Iron Throne or--?”

“The War with the Other,” came Melisandre’s voice, a purr from within her crimson cowl.

“Either war,” snapped Stannis. “I have no shortage of enemies and I have two wars to fight, and I can’t fight them alone.” He turned back toward Jon, his jaw set. “If my scouts are to be relied upon, Cersei is sending her own repugnant contender to rule over your father’s people in her son’s name.”

Jon worked to keep his face blank. He had heard the same rumors. “Roose Bolton.”

“Yes,” said Stannis. He was still giving Jon a steely eyed look rife with distaste, like Jon was a sour swig of wine he couldn’t decide whether to spit out or swallow. “An able man. ‘A quiet rule, a quite people,’ he told me once. He hosted my brothers and myself, shortly after Robert won the crown. Robert was too proud to see the advice, only the slight in his words. I saw the prudence then, as I see it now. These are not quiet times, however. The North, your father’s people, _my _people, are not quiet. They are loud. Loud with their hatred of Roose Bolton after he betrayed your brother. Loud with their mistrust of—” cast a furtive glance to the woman by his side, but she continued to gaze serenely off into the night, seeing something she alone could see, playing with the ruby at her throat. “Me.”

Again, Jon said nothing.

“Your brother was an able man as well. Brash, brave, noble, and dead before his time, but a brave leader and a skilled soldier,” said Stannis without a hint of emotion. “The Red Wedding was pure, wasteful butchery. I could have done a lot with your brother as my Warden of the North and your uncle my Lord Paramount of the Trident.”

“If wishes were horses, we’d all be eating steak,” said Jon before he could stop himself.

Stannis Baratheon’s cold blue eyes snapped to Jon’s. Jon could see the tendons in his neck working as he ground his teeth.

“Your Grace,” said Jon, sinking to one knee in the snow. “I must consider this offer.”

“Consider with haste, Jon Snow. Time is running out.” And with that Stannis turned on the heel of his boot and stalked off toward the winch cage that would return him and his red woman to the King’s Tower.

Jon stayed on top of the Wall for a long time after they left, considering. He stayed awake long through the night, considering.

The thought that he could rebuild Winterfell, help heal it, was enough to make him ache with longing. The ghosts would always be there, perhaps, but the ghosts were his family and he owed them. But he owed his brothers too, these brothers.

And yet. There was a light coming from a tower across from his sleeping cell, and a shadow paced restlessly before it—_Val._

He pictured himself, hand in hand with Val in the Godswood, being joined together as Lord and Lady Stark and almost laughed. The picture was sweet, but it was something from one of Sansa’s story books—beautiful, colorful, and above all not real. Val wouldn’t consent to be given away to him, or any man, for that matter. And what would his father’s people do? Submit meekly to the rule of a bastard and a wildling? He had Stark blood, to be sure—but being seated on his father’s seat in Winterfell’s great hall by a mere claimant to the iron throne, a Southron one at that, wouldn’t truly give him a strong hold over the people.

He tried to draw to his mind the picture of Val again, but her refined features kept transforming into Ygritte’s, her crooked teeth splitting her face into a mischievous grin. _You know nothing Jon Snow._ He turned away from the window and sat on the edge of his bed, scratching Ghost under his chin.

The North was bleeding. Stannis needed the North, for his claim—but Jon privately felt that the North needed him as well. They needed a king, they needed a lord. They needed someone they could trust before they could begin to heal. Winter was coming.

They needed a Stark.

They needed a Stark, but Jon supposed a Snow would have to do.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon & Val's wedding is festive and fraught.
> 
> Edited to add: the assumption here is that Jon & Stannis return to an abandoned Winterfell PRIOR to the Bolton’s & Fake Arya arrival — so there wasn’t a battle per say, they’re just sort of reclaiming the abandoned shell of the castle.

As Jon rested his hand on the knee of his father’s statue, he could picture Stannis Baratheon grinding his teeth before his features settled into the scowl they wore so comfortably. In Jon’s mind, Stannis waited at the head of his army, in the desolate streets of the winter town. A wry smile played about Jon’s lips. His condition for accepting Stannis’ offer was that he be the first to enter Winterfell. He wanted a few days of solitude there, just himself, and the ghosts. And Ghost, of course. Stannis had given him half a day with ill grace, but it was enough. Jon had walked through the burned shell of the stables, the corpse of the timber halls, and even the sept his father had built to please his southron bride. He had touched the stone of the tower from which Bran had fallen, and traveled down to the crypts to reacquaint himself with the icy stone features of his ancestors, the ideal medium to capture their stern faces. In that, His Grace was not unlike the Starks. Jon took comfort in that, as he walked through the courtyard littered with scorched bones.

Finally, he had visited the Godswood.

He sat by the heart tree and laid Longclaw across his lap, honing the blade. With each rasp of the whetstone he asked the Old Gods if this was right. He sat where he had seen his father sit, so many times, with Ice. Jon’s attention to his weapon was a form of prayer, like it was for Eddard.

Jon didn’t say much to the Old Gods. They didn’t say anything back. It was sort of an unspoken agreement—if they truly disapproved, they could strike him down. They didn’t.

Jon held his vigil in the Godswood for a long time, the entire remainder of the time Stannis had allotted him. As he heard the trumpet heralding the arrival of His Grace, Stannis Baratheon, Jon remembered that the Old Gods were Val’s Gods as well.

Some hours later, Jon stood beneath the Heart Tree. His heart hammered in his chest, his burned fingers clutched at the bride’s cloak he’d soon be draping around Val’s shoulders. He suppressed a nervous chuckle as he thought of the farce of the Maiden’s Cloak she’d surely be forced to wear as she approached him; he’d known one of her lovers personally and had also known the youth had been referred to as “her latest pet.”

As Jon stood in the silence and the swirling snows, he wondered vaguely who’d be there to present the bride. He couldn’t think of her as _his _bride, not truly. Ghost sat beside him, alert, expectant. That was another of his conditions; the wolf was a part of him and in a way Val would be marrying them both. Privately, Jon felt the Free Folk that Stannis intended to settle in the Wintertown and the villages beyond would respect him more if he still seemed a little more, well, free. Wild. Like they were.

“A Man can own a woman, or a man can own a knife,” he heard Ygritte say in his ear. “But no man can own both.” Jon had a very fine knife. He had an ugly knife of obsidian he’d made himself as well. He sighed. Jon wondered if being married to a wildling would help him understand them better. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Guests began to arrive. Most were Stannis Baratheon’s knights and their retainers. Queen Selyse’s ladies, the princess & Queen Selyse herself would also attend. Jon heard the tinkle of Jinglebell the fool’s headpiece, and the rowdier anticipation of the free folk. Jon realized with a start he knew nothing about the wedding customs of the free folk—if there were any. The crowd seemed rough and curious, eager to see a show and adjourn to the hastily reconstructed hall that smelled of new timber for drink and food and music. Some of Jon’s black brothers attended as well. They provided him an honor guard down from the wall. Dolorous Edd, Sam Tarly, even Pyp and Grenn. Pyp had wolf-whistled at Jon as he took his place by the Heart Tree.

Melisandre had remained at Castle Black in the tower that had become the King’s seat.

That had been Jon’s final condition of accepting the King’s offer.

The guests arranged themselves around the heart tree, Jon standing patiently before its face. A pleasant hush fell over the crowd as Jon watched the heads all turn toward the path leading past the hot springs. In spite of himself, in spite of it all, Jon’s breath caught in his throat as he saw Val approaching him through the heady mists of the pools.

She was beautiful, no denying it. Her high cheekbones, her eyes, the hollow of her throat, the hair wrapped in a heavy braid that hung over her shoulder. Her nostrils flared and a small puff of mist escaped her lips in the cold. Leading her down the aisle between the guests was none other than Tormund Giantsbane. Jon had to grin.

After the traditional call and answer, Jon swept the bride’s cloak around Val’s shoulders. Then, they knelt in the snow, hands clasped in silent prayer, and it was done. The longest part of the ceremony by far had been when Jon asked, “Who brings this woman to be wed?” and Tormund Giantsbane had felt obligated to list his many titles and styles. Jon could tell Val was trying not to laugh. As they knelt in the snow, she kept glancing at him through her thick lashes, but he avoided her stare, submitting instead to the stare of the heart tree. As they went to leave the Godswood, Val peeled off her white fur gloves and extended a small, slender fingered hand. Touched, Jon returned the gesture, removing his own glove. He hesitated before sliding his own scarred hand into her waiting palm. Her hand, surprisingly warm against the chill, gave his a reassuring squeeze. Val ran her thumb across one of his scars, and smiled a private smile from the inside of the hood of her bride’s cloak.

Northern wedding ceremonies might be bleak and somber, but as the mead and winter beer flowed, it was clear that the reception would be one hell of a party. Jon and Val lead the dance as was the custom, and it made Jon smile to see her nerves showing. He was certain the free folk danced—he’d seen it at the side of their fires when he rode with them—but they danced the way they fought: wild, like demons but joyful, certainly with no pattern of steps he could discern. They danced to any music, or the wind, or with the movements of their fires and the swirling snows. Val was confident, athletic, healthy and graceful but Jon was certain this kind of dance was completely foreign to her. She stared at her feet trying so carefully to place them right. A flush crept up to her cheeks as she stumbled and, somehow from years of feeling out of place himself, Jon knew what to do.

He dropped the stiff posture of the choreographed steps, releasing Val’s now sweating hand. Instead, he grabbed her tiny waist in both of his hands, lifted her into the air and spun her around. She gasped, and as he put her down she stumbled, laughing into his arms. Taking his lead, she grabbed one of his hands and spun below his arm, grabbing a fistful of her elegant skirts and swinging the fabric side to side as she leapt in the air. The musicians took their cue from the bride and groom and abandoned their slow, melodic tune for a more lively one. Jon felt like a boy again as he laughed and danced with Val. Not to be outdone, the other free folk in attendance grabbed partners at random and flooded the dance floor.

When the song ended, Val stooped into a silly curtsey, and Jon leaned forward and planted a kiss on her hand. As the musicians paused though, something broke between them. This day had been a blur of ceremony, but the ceremony was coming to a close. Rapidly. What was left, then? _Nothing, _Jon thought, unless he was prepared to carry Val off to his bed chamber at sword point. Jon bowed stiffly and turned his back, pretending to make pleasant conversation with their guests.

He lost track of Val in the flurry of well-wishers. Jon was pleasantly surprised at the warm congratulations he received from the hill clans. They seemed much more at ease among the free folk than a lot of the other Northmen, and Jon hoped that it was indicative of his people blending together more easily in the future. Jon found himself facing his and Val’s wedding cake.

“I hope it pleases you, my lord.” The cook bowed low to the ground and backed off toward the kitchen. The cake did please Jon; it was very beautiful. It was covered in whorls of black, white and grey—looking like a vein of ice or diamonds in a black stone wall, completely with crystals made of sugar. Around the base were ice blue winter roses. Winter roses were once the crown jewel of Winterfell’s glass gardens, an extremely rare variety of flower. Jon reached out to touch one of the petals, wondering where the cook had found them in the desolation of Winterfell. The petal was brittle as bone, Jon found, surprised. “It’s a special type of sugar, my lord.” The cook was back with an elegant serving knife.

“It’s beautiful,” he told her sincerely. “Almost too pretty to eat.”

She smiled, placing the utensils on the table and retreating once more. Jon touched the rose again, brought back to a memory of his father. Suddenly, he was seven years old again, standing in the crypts. His father stood by his side, his head bowed solemnly. They were in front of Lady Lyanna’s sepulcher. Eddard laid a crown of winter roses around the brow of his sister’s statue. “They were your aunt’s favorite,” he explained to his bastard son. Jon recalled that it had been the anniversary of her death. He had never known his aunt, so even now he wasn’t sure why it was so important to his father that Jon attend him as he mourned. He’d known better than to ask at the time, and now he’d never know. He’d have to make it a point to grow more of the blossoms, in their honor.

Shaken out of his memories by Pyp forcing a drinking horn into his hand, Jon arranged his face into a smile.

“Well, Lord Snow,” said Pyp as Jon drank deeply from the horn, “You need some help knowing how to please your pretty wife you just let me know!”

Jon rolled his eyes and laughed at his friend, draining the rest of the horn in a few huge gulps. “Oh I’m sure I can manage.”

Jon was nervous, truthfully. He had resolved to be finished with love as Ygritte’s body had burned. Done with kissing, done with soft touches and whispers in the dark—done with all of it. And yet now the safety of his father’s people—_his _people—depended on him shelving his grief and sealing this union with the Free Folk. As Pyp moved off to tease Grenn and grab another round of ale, Jon searched the crowd of wedding attendees for Val, hoping to suggest they adjourn to the Lord and Lady’s bed chamber for the evening.

His brow furrowed as he looked around the room, scanning every laughing face, searching for her amongst the small groupings of free folk, but finding nothing.

Val was gone.


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon begins to feel the strain stitching up the pieces of the North. 
> 
> His marriage is another series of riddles, but Val seems to have the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a hot minute because it includes my very first attempt at writing a sexy scene. Please forgive. :)

Jon pulled the furs up to his chin. He was acutely aware that he was sleeping in his father’s bed, or at least, lying there.

Jon had woken up the morning after his wedding, clothed fully and alone in Eddard Stark’s bed in the Lord’s master bedroom. He had half expected never to see Val again, the fragile alliance between the North and the free folk shattered as soon as it began Yet, when he went downstairs there she sat, at the table in the private dining chamber where Jon had eaten so many meals as a boy, tearing chunks of hot bread apart with her fingers and dipping them straight into the bowl of fruit preserves meant for the table to share.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said, voice tight.

“Good morning, Lord Snow,” she’d answered, and he didn’t press the issue that he wasn’t a Snow any longer, because—what was the point, really?

Since then, Val had sought her own nighttime comforts and Jon had hardly felt it was his place to find and stop her. She turned up, fresh clothed and fresh faced, to sit beside him as he heard petitioners each morning, and walked the grounds by his side, supervising the repair of Winterfell’s stables.

They hardly spoke.

Though this was hardly what Jon would call ideal, he had other problems. Everyone had played nice at the wedding, but Jon learned quickly that there was not enough mead in the world to sustain such an uneasy friendship for long. Already he’d had to lock up five men, two more having died from wounds at three separate brawls that had broken out in the streets of the Winter town. Some had been free folk, some Northmen, and all had been very hostile. The men from the hill clans were not helping matters either; they had seemed more at ease amongst the free folk sure enough, but they also griped about Jon bringing Val down from the Wall when most of them had daughters that would have suited just fine as Lady of Winterfell, thank you very much. This set the other Lords to complaining about _their _daughters being overlooked, and if Val turned out to be barren they’d be happy to present them as substitutes. Slights imagined and real were flung from all sides, and Jon thanked the Gods that at least the black brothers weren’t here to stir the already feverishly boiling pot. He’d sent them back north to the Wall the morning following the wedding, and adding to the loneliness he felt in his marriage, he missed Sam, Grenn and Pyp something fierce. It was a lot for a young Lord to bare.

Jon was supping with his lords bannermen one evening, five days after the wedding. Val sat by his side, Ghost curled under the table at his feet. As the plates were cleared away, he announced his plan to settle some of the free folk on The Gift. He was met with an explosion of outrage and curses, and let it all wash over him.

“None of you has settlements on the Gift,” he reminded them when they’d sputtered into silence. “The land is fertile, and as of now it’s going to waste.”

“Aye, and why’s that?” mocked Mors Umber, castellan of Last Hearth. His nephew, the true Lord of House Umber, remained a captive to the Lannisters after the Red Wedding. He shot a look at Val. “Because your new good-fathers raided the damn place so often all the small folk up and left!”

Jon sighed. “Winter is coming. Petty squabbles over land aren’t going to fill anyone’s bellies when it gets here. I need to get the land settled _now_, and pray that we can all pull in at least one more harvest before winter truly arrives.”

“And who’s going to keep the King’s Peace up there, begging my Lord’s pardon?”

“Tormund Giantsbane. Or should I say, Lord Tormund, of House Giantsbane.”

Another uproar. Jon held his hands up for silence. “This is not up for debate, my lords. Tormund is a good man, an able leader, and the free folk respect him. He can teach them how to kneel.”

“Better we kneeled the whole filthy lot of them up against a headsman’s block,” muttered Umber.

Val bristled beside Jon, and he laid a hand on hers. He gazed evenly at Mors Umber through narrowed eyes, and the rest of the room knew instantly Umber had gone too far. Jon turned to Val.

“My lady,” he said softly, “I apologize for Lord Umber’s rudeness. Perhaps you’d like to excuse yourself?” Val cast a filthy look at Mors Umber and shoved her chair back before stomping from the room.

Jon looked back at Umber. The man was thrice his age and thrice his size, but he still quailed under Jon’s gaze.

“Beg pardon, m’lord,” he muttered, looking down at his hands on the table.

“You may excuse yourself, as well, Umber, before I decide that Last Hearth needs a new castellan in the Greatjon’s absence. Take your men and get out of my sight.”

Mors Umber slunk from the room, the eyes of the other lords following him as he went. When the door shut behind him, they turned nervously to look at Jon. Jon let the silence spiral for a while.

“As for the rest of you,” he said finally, “you all accepted His Grace Stannis as your King, and with that, me as your Lord. I am grateful for the honor but you _will _obey me, as you obeyed my father and my brother before me. You’re all dismissed.”

He lied in the vast bed later that evening, scratching Ghost behind the ears, thinking wryly of how his marital bed differed not one jot from his cell of sworn celibacy in the Night’s Watch. Tossing and turning, Jon’s brain went where it so often did—into a cycle of self doubt and abuse as he wondered if he had done the right thing, again. He was so distracted that he didn’t realize the heavy drapes of his window stirring despite the stillness of the night.

When there was a threat, even implied, Jon would notice Ghost tense, every muscle in the beast’s body pulsing in a silent challenge—this was the opposite. If Ghost had been a cat, Jon was sure he’d be purring in welcome. The direwolf whimpered and slid liquidly off of Jon’s bed toward the movement of the curtain.

A figure with slender arms braced against the window, legs in a powerful crouch, was silhouetted against the moon.

“Lord Snow,” said a voice, husky, curious, “I’ve come t’steal you away.”

Her voice, so unlike Ygritte’s, nevertheless stirred something in his chest as she slurred the words together as Ygritte might have done. The sound of it broke his heart. He’d blown out his candle just moments before, but he knew that voice.

Jon pulled the blankets up around himself. “My lady,” he said, his voice coming out sad and resigned. “There’s no need to steal what’s already yours.”

“Lord Snow,” she said, “We both know too much of my free folk and your northmen to pretend any longer. There’s already talk of our sham of a marriage.”

“How do you know?”

Val shrugged. “I hear things.”

She leapt down from the sill, pausing to scratch Ghost’s ears, and moved toward his bed. As Jon’s eyes adjusted to the light he saw her tossing a familiar knife back and forth, hand to hand.

“That’s mine,” he said stupidly. She leaned over and traced the point of the knife over his brow, down the side of his cheek. The cold touch of the blade sent a shiver down his spine.

“No, it isn’t.”

She slid the knife down his bare chest, giving his skin the barest whisper of a prick with the point. Then, she extended her other hand, palm up. Waiting.

Jon sat up and took her hand. Half naked, Jon felt he couldn’t protest as Val led him out the window and along the roof. The cold, so bracing as to be almost painful, raised gooseflesh that spread across his bare arms and chest. He followed her in a dizzying array of acrobatics until, almost laughing, he fell into the welcoming arms of the heart tree. His heart ached but his lips formed a smile—his brother Bran had followed this path so many times, right from his bedroom in the castle to the boughs in the Winterfell’s most sacred space. Jon shivered, his bare feet tingly-numb from the chill.

Val sat cross legged and looked at him for a long, silent while, watching him tremble as he wrapped his arms around himself.

“Do you remember what Mance said to you, the day we met?” She asked, her hazel eyes boring holes into his own sad grey ones.

“The free folk don’t follow the name,” said Jon, remembering. “They follow the man.”

“They follow the man, Jon Snow,” agreed Val.

“And you, my lady?”

Sitting in the tree she seemed so at ease. Val looked at her husband, shaking with cold, half naked, his grey eyes some of the saddest eyes she’d ever seen. “I follow the man as well.”

Their breath formed a soft grey cloud as they leaned together. They’d shared a kiss at their wedding ceremony but Jon hadn’t really tasted the urgency he felt now. Her lips, firm and bold and hungry, met his own without fear. He drew a shuddering breath, and Val removed her cloak, sweeping it tenderly across his shoulders.

“Val,” he breathed, rubbing the stubble of his beard against her jaw.

“Yes, Lord Snow?”

The Godswood made him braver. “My lady, where have you been sleeping since we wed?”

Val pulled Jon’s burned hand to her lips, clasping her hands together around his.

“Here.”

“What?”

Val sighed, her cheeks pink. “I knew when my sister died, when the Mance died, that the world of the free folk was changing. When Stannis and his red witch took me I thought every morning in that bloody tower was my last.”

Jon pulled her beautiful, strong fingers toward himself, and blew warm breath over them. His lips brushed against the sides of her palms, inviting her to go on.

“So I slept there, at your Crow castle, but not well. I took sleep like a starving man takes food, because I was afraid it might be my last chance. I’d never…” She looked suddenly bashful, “I’d never slept in an honest t’goodness bed before then.”

Jon couldn’t help it, he laughed. “What?”

She turned fierce again in an instant, yanking her hands away. “Anyway,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “the night of our wedding I found you in your chamber, already asleep. You seemed so cold, like you were a hundred leagues away from me in that great big bed. So I retraced my steps back here, and climbed up into the tree. It was peaceful.” She shrugged. “The next morning I started wandering around stealing these blankets from around your castle and I’ve been sleeping here ever since.” She looked up at the moon. “It’s easier under the sky.”

Jon glanced around behind her at the “blankets,” and bit back another laugh. They were tapestries, rich ornate ones that had hung in Winterfell’s halls as long as Jon could remember, and he knew they were older even than his father’s father. Now, here they were rumpled up in a tree like a load of old rags.

He turned back to Val, who was watching him, watching him like he was prey and she was a hunter. She’d slipped the knife out of her sleeve again and was running her thumb across the blade. “Laugh all you like, Lord Snow--you’re staying here with me tonight,” she said, her voice almost a growl.

Jon surprised them both when he closed the distance between them, lunging toward Val and grabbing the sides of her face with both of his hands. Their lips slammed together and Jon was briefly afraid he’d knocked them both out of the tree before Val’s tongue slid between his lips, flicking against his teeth, eagerly pursuing his, erasing most everything else from his mind.

Jon groaned as Val’s lips disengaged from his own and found his jaw, peppering the sharp line from his chin to his ear with kisses before finding the spot below his earlobe. She sank her teeth in, hard enough to make him gasp.

“Be brave now, Lord Snow,” she whispered, and he could feel her smile against his skin and her breath on his neck. Jon shivered as her lips moved down his throat, toward his collar bone. His hands worked their way up to her hair.

Val’s nails slid down his sides, tickling his already electrified flesh, as her lips and tongue explored his chest. Jon felt a burning heat simmering below his bellybutton, his breath coming in shallow gasps with puffs of mist in the cold air. He leaned back onto his elbows, looking up at the red leaves of the weirwood tree and the stars dotting the sky above them. The leaves were almost black in the darkness.

Val climbed up, straddling Jon’s waist, brushing her fingers across his shoulders to slip him out of her cloak. He laid back against the thick branch behind him. Closing his eyes, Jon couldn’t help but feel a hot swoop of guilt, sharp as a stomachache, like he was being unfaithful to Ygritte for enjoying this.

He could almost picture her laughing at him, here playing the innocent when she’d known how weak he truly was. Jon raked his hands over Val’s thighs, up over the sharp jut of her hip bones toward the laces of the breaches she wore. Numb from cold, his fingers fumbled with the strings as Val shrugged out of her vest and lifted the linen tunic over her head.

Val’s wicked hips suddenly stopped their wriggling as her fingers drifted down over the corset she wore beneath the tunic. “I had a dozen bloody servants stuff me into this thing,” she complained. “Why do you kneelers want your women squashed in these like a sausage about to bust its skin?”

“We don’t,” said Jon, his voice hoarse as he grabbed the soft fabric and yanked.

It was Val’s turn to gasp as Jon leaned up, burying his face between her breasts, his tongue flicking over her soft skin. She wound her fingers through his thick black hair, tugging on his scalp, arching her back as she ground against his cock. His resulting moan vibrated against her chest, and she jerked her hands down, yanking Jon’s head back, sharp enough to make him wince.

His mouth hung open, hooded eyes gazing up into her face. “You’ve got lips as pretty as a girl’s, Lord Snow,” she murmured, leaning down to taste them. “So soft.”

He’d heard that before, of course, yet when Val said it he didn’t mind. He yielded his soft lips to her now as she came at him with tooth and claw, pushing on his chest so that his back fell against the thick branch of the weirwood again.

The rest of their clothes fell away easily as autumn leaves. Their eyes had long since adjusted to the moonlight, allowing the Lord and Lady of Winterfell to look at each other’s bodies, each privately feeling they had the nicer view. For a while, they contended themselves with looking, and slow brushes of fingertips. But Val wasn’t one for staying still. As she began to rock against him, Jon grasped her hips, his cock achingly hard between them, rutting up against the hot, slick heat of her cunt.

Her eyes never left his face as she leaned forward on her arms, her breasts brushing against his chest. He could feel the tight buds of her nipples against his skin and lost himself completely. His hands tightened around her waist and he plunged his cock into her, and though she yelped in surprise he found her completely soaked and pliant. A small whimper slipped out between her lips as he sunk in to the hilt, looking down his own chest to see the thick black hair around his own manhood tangling with the honey gold thatch between Val’s legs. She buried her face against the side of his neck, whispering absolute filth into his ear between nibbles and kisses.

“Weak,” Jon could hear a voice say. “_Weak._” It was Ygritte’s voice scoffing at him, and his father’s; it was Lady Catelyn and Alliser Thorne. The voice was Maester Aemon and the Old Bear, and it seemed to be all the Starks that had come before him, and all the black brothers besides. Jon faltered for a second, his stuttering hips losing their rhythm against Val’s body.

Val chose that moment to tease her tongue up the side of Jon’s neck while squeezing his cock inside her, and the pleasure coiling like a fist somewhere near the base of his spine crushed the voices into nothingness. Jon grunted, his breath a hot, moist cloud around the crown of Val’s head as he moved faster against her.

With each thrust the heat between them grew, and Val ground faster and harder against him. Jon’s hands grew frantic, tangled in her hair, stroking her spine, grasping every inch of her flesh he could reach. Val’s kisses turned to moans against Jon’s skin, each sound humming through his blood. Suddenly, Val arched her back, raking her nails down Jon’s bare chest. The stinging scratches left in their wake sent tingles straight to Jon’s brain. His own release came upon him, howling like a winter storm as felt Val’s sex spasm, milking his cock till he was utterly boneless.

Val gave him one last little squeeze, smiling down wickedly at him, her eyes a little dazed. “You certainly fuck better than you dance, Lord Snow,” she said, a little breathless. Jon laughed out loud, suddenly aware of the silence in the clearing—sure everyone had heard them back at the castle. Val rolled off him and nestled into his chest, tracing a finger along the thin read scratches she’d left across him. They relaxed in silence, both feeling the cold creep back in to settle on their skin—skin that had been steaming only moments ago—and Jon slipped his fingers into Val’s hair. He loved touching it; it was so soft and thick, and every time he disturbed it he got a hit of a heady scent like meat and wine and wood smoke, and him now. Jon smiled. He moved his fingertips to tickle an errant strand off of Val’s cheek and back behind her ear, delayed in realizing his fingertips came away wet.

Jon sat up, startled, and opened his eyes. “Val? Are you crying?”

She knuckled her tears away, angry and ashamed, and said with a hiccough, “I’d heard all your Southron maids weep on their wedding night.”

“It’s not our wedding night,” he reminded her, and, desperate to make her laugh, he added, “and you’re no maid.”

She did laugh, a sad and strangled little chuckle, giving a playful shove against his chest. The hungry predator that had stolen him from his bed to devour his flesh was gone, leaving only a young girl, lonely and scared in a foreign world that didn’t have any love for her kind.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, refusing to meet his eyes. Jon moved forward and pulled her toward him, hugging her against his chest as she cried. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, nose buried in her sweet smelling hair. “Why are you sorry?

She shrugged in his arms, and Jon suspected he wasn’t the only one feeling guilty tonight. He was sorry too. Sorry that the only way here, to this beautiful moment was soaked in blood. Sorry that Val had lost her king, her country, her lover and her sister. Sorry that she’d had to marry him to save the bloody remains of her people.

The thought that they had this in common warmed him, though. They could share this, at least. A sense of duty to unite their people, crushing guilt over the ones they’d lost. Fear of what was coming.

And grief. That most of all.

“Come, my lady,” said Jon, nudging her chin up a bit so he could look into her eyes. “Let’s get out of the cold.”


	4. IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Jon and Val have found some comfort in their marriage and with each other, Jon's troubles are far from over. He reviews his correspondence late into the night, making plans to rebuild the North and prepare for the future of Westeros.

_Dear Lord Stark,_

_I write to you from my seat at Castle Black. Your erstwhile brothers are working my final nerve. They have been trying to choose a new Lord Commander to replace Jeor Mormont. After six days of voting there is still no clear winner. _

_I hope that you are preparing the people of the North for winter. Lady Melisandre has seen in her fires that it will be a harsh one. My scouts report that Roose Bolton and his son have been delayed at the Neck, Moat Cailin being still in the hands of the Ironmen. With this letter I am sending my Hand, Lord Davos Seaworth. He must needs make passage to White Harbor. He is not a well spoken man, but an honest one. Please assist him in any manner he requests, as he speaks with my voice. His journey to White Harbor is of vital importance; we have dire need of Lord Manderly’s ships if we are to hold the North against the Boltons and the Ironmen. _

_Written in the Light of the Lord,_

_His Grace, Stannis Baratheon, First of his Name._

Your Grace, King Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name,

The choosing of a new Lord Commander is a centuries old tradition. Begging your pardon but it cannot be rushed.

Here at Winterfell, we are preparing best we can. I have begun working with Lord Tormund, newly of House Giantsbane, to begin settling The Gift in hopes of working the fertile land to one more harvest before autumn’s end. Moat Caillin has never been taken from the south, as you know. Hopefully the Ironmen can hold off the Boltons until a snow storm rids us both of them all. I was pleased to meet Lord Davos. He seems, as you say, to be a loyal and honest man. I am providing him with some of my best guides to see him safely to White Harbor. There will be a feast this evening in his honor. It’s not every day that a King’s Hand comes to Winterfell.

I will write again when Lord Davos departs.

Your Servant,  
Lord Jon Stark, Warden of the North

_Dear Jon, _

_I think His Grace is about one day away from killing the lot of us. Just last night at the choosing, someone nominated Dolorous Edd for the job of Lord Commander. He actually got a few votes! Maester Aemon is worried, because Janos Slynt has been gaining support steadily over the last few days. We both fear that with all of his clout from King’s Landing that he’ll win over Ser Denys or Cotter Pyke. Even Alliser Thorne is supporting him now. _

_His Grace still has not decided upon a fate for Mance Rayder. He remains in the ice cells, getting thinner by the day. Gilly is still taking good care of both the babes, but I think it’s high time she got off the wall. Castle Black isn’t safe for her, nor the little ones, I think. Perhaps when the matter of Lord Commander is settled, I could escort them down to Winterfell. I’m sure Lady Val would be happy to see her nephew, and Gilly could do some work around the castle for you. _

_We all miss you something fierce, Jon. Castle Black is not the same without you and Ghost. _

_Love Sincerely,  
Sam Tarly _

Dearest Sam,

Don’t worry, I’m sure His Grace is only trying to intimidate the brothers into making a more timely choice. Remind them that while His Grace is the king, he has no baring on the ancient traditions of the Watch. However, much like The Watch taking no part in the affairs of the realm, so am I forbidden to weigh in on what is happening at Castle Black. Let’s just say that I sincerely hope that whomever the brothers choose will rise to the occasion and serve with honor, as the Old Bear did.

To the matter of Gilly and the babes, Lady Val assures me that if I reject your offer, she’s going to pack up her things and return to Castle Black herself—she does indeed miss her “Monster,” as she’s taken to calling her sister’s son. Once a Lord Commander has been chosen, if he wishes it, I would love for Gilly to take up a place here at Winterfell, and of course to visit with you again.

Give my best to Grenn, Pyp, Edd, and the rest of the brothers.

Love,  
Jon Stark

_Dear Lord Stark, _

_We were devastated to hear that Maester Luwin has gone missing. In war, even those most learned among us can be felled by the lesser weapons of men. _

_Maester Luwin was an honored member of our brotherhood and will be sorely missed. Though, as you say, it does not change the fact that Winterfell is in dire need of a new Maester. We feel as though young Maester Redd will be a good fit for rebuilding Winterfell’s rookery with you. _

_Though we mortal men can barely begin to predict the workings of the wide world, we are reasonably confident that he will reach Winterfell within two turns of the moon. _

_Along with ten adult ravens and two breeding pairs, with him we are sending several copies of known volumes to have been lost from Winterfell’s extensive libraries. If it please you, Lord Stark, in Maester’s Redd’s spare time we would like for him to copy the scrolls such that we can eventually re-claim the copies we are sending north, perhaps when the matter of the Iron Throne is more settled. _

_Yours in Service,  
Archmaester Theobold  
Senechel of the Citadel_

Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor,

I hope that autumn is treating you and your people well. As one of my late Lord Father’s most trusted bannermen, I had looked to see you at my recent wedding. I imagine the travel was dangerous with the autumn snow squalls we’ve been having, and the fortifying of your own lands must of course take precedence over frivolous celebrations.

Since my installment as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North by His Grace, King Stannis, it has been a whirlwind of catching up on the goings on from the War of Five Kings. On the Wall, we were far removed and received little and less by way of news from the realm. As such, I have only just recently learned of your valiant son’s capture and imprisonment at the hands of the Lannisters. I understand your hesitance in aligning yourself with His Grace while the future of your noble house hangs in the balance.

My family has also suffered great losses at the hands of house Lannister. I can’t imagine in your shoes what I would chose if one of mine own kin danced upon the blade of a knife. However, I wished to assure you that King Stannis is the King that bares the best will toward the people of Westeros, and it is in his stern and just hands that we will heal the realm—hopefully before the snows begin to fall. Cersei cares only for power, My Lord. King Stannis cares for Westeros.

I hope that you will consider my words and the words of Lord Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King, when he arrives at Merman’s Court.

Winter is Coming, Lord Manderly. Consider well, and consider quickly.

Sincerely,  
Jon Stark  
Lord of Winterfell & Warden of the North

_To All of the Lords of The Realm, _

_We regret to inform you all of the passing of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. His watch is ended, and we hope he has found peace. He served the Watch with honor, dignity and tenacity, and it is with our undying shame that we explain he met his demise at the hands of our own sworn brothers. _

_Lord Commander Mormont had lead an unprecedented ranging beyond the wall, and while he was surrounded by our best men, the Watch was, and remains, a Shadow of its former self. The King Beyond the Wall, Mance Rayder, had amassed a great host of the Free Folk and planned to assault the Wall and thereby the realm itself. _

_Commander Mormont was slain by our erstwhile brothers during a confused retreat from the Fist of the First Men, an ancient stronghold beyond the wall. We received many conflicting reports, as only a small percentage of the force returned to Castle Black alive. We are still sorting through the eye witness accounts of the surviving brothers. _

_His Grace King Stannis has aided the black brothers in our fight against the wildlings, ultimately overthrowing Mance Rayder and making common cause with the refugees from the free folk, as all of humanity seems to be facing a greater threat than we feared. _

_After ten days of voting, the brothers are pleased to announce that we have chosen Lord Commander Mormont’s successor, Lord Janos Slynt, formerly of King’s Landing. He has taken his vows in our holy sept here at Castle Black and we are sure he will lead the brothers with honor. _

_As always, we beg the Lords of the Realm to send us any and all men who wish to serve the ancient order of the Night’s Watch. Our strength is dwindling and the threats we face are greater than ever. _

_In Service to the Realm, _

_Maester Aemon,  
Written by the hand of Samwell Tarly_

The candle on Jon’s desk burned low. He crumpled the final letter, penned in Sam’s neat, precise hand, tight in his fist.

“_Jon?” _Val’s call from their bed startled him.

“My lady,” he said softly, trying to keep the anger at the letter from his voice. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“Are you reading that letter again?”

He sighed in answer, rubbing his tired eyes. He heard the heavy blankets shifting as Val rose from the bed and walked across the stone floor to stand behind his chair. Her hands clasped his shoulders, thumbs probing the knots she found there.

Jon seized her hand and brushed a kiss on the interior of her wrist.

“Why d’you keep reading it?”

“I suppose I just keep hoping that it will read differently. The Wall was my home, and those men were my brothers, my family. Janos Slynt is going to destroy the Watch.”

Val stiffened, tugging her arm from his grasp. Jon knew she still bore no love for the men she called the Crows.

“You’re not one of them crows anymore, Jon.”

“I know,” he said tiredly.

“Not every problem is yours to fix. Maybe it’s time for the Watch to end,” Val said. Whether she knew it or not, she echoed the customary funeral rites for a black brother with her words.

Jon stood. “Val, you know why the Wall was built.”

Her face grew hard. “Aye,” she said, mocking. “To offer up all the free folk to those dead ones so that you kneelers could live in peace.”

“That’s not true,” said Jon, but the words were hollow and he knew it. He hated to believe that’s why Bran the Builder raised the Wall, but he couldn’t deny it was a pretty serious consequence. Who knew how long the blood of the free folk had appeased the Wights and whatever dark forces controlled them? Was that the real reason they hadn’t threatened the realm, until now?

His anguish must have shown on his face, because Val’s steely eyed glare melted away. “Come on, back to bed with you, Lord Snow,” she said, tugging on his sleeve. “You can make your plans for healing the all the ills of the world in the morning. Besides, Ghost has bad dreams without you.”

Smiling, Jon allowed himself to be marched back to bed, but even with the warmth of Ghost on one side and the quiet breathing of Val on the other he didn’t fall asleep for some time. He stared at the canopy above the bed for hours, Maester Aemon’s letter still crushed in his fist.


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon eagerly awaits Sam's visit to Winterfell to escort Gilly from the Wall. Val teaches some of the castle's residents the proper way to fletch arrows. Some startling news comes to Winterfell.

Jon’s eyes sprang open, wide and alert as a child on the morning of his name day. He sat up eagerly, stretching his arms above his head with a grin.

Sam.

Though there were some autumn snow squalls traversing the north as the land worked its way toward winter, Sam’s letters had indicated that he, Gilly, the babes, and the rest of their escort would arrive from the wall before the full moon—tonight.

Ghost twitched in his sleep at the foot of the bed, letting out a low whine. Jon ran his hand over Val’s side of the bed, finding the blankets cold. He wasn’t concerned, however—he knew Val was taking part in her new early morning ritual. Jon dressed quickly and selected a warm, thick woolen towel from their wardrobe and crossed the hall to the master baths. He knocked on the warped wooden door.

A contented sigh answered him, telling him he was welcome to enter. The room was hot and moist, steam rising from the tubs in thick lazy clouds. The master baths took full advantage Winterfell’s internal hot springs. Val sat in the center tub, almost entirely submerged. Her hair drifted like golden seaweed on top of the water. Seeing Jon, she wriggled forward to the edge of the tub, resting her elbows on the warm stone and gazing lazily at her husband.

“I think this is the warmest I’ve ever been,” she said.

Val said this often.

She said it the morning after their first night together; servants having stoked the fire in their chambers before dawn so they woke to its warmth, tangled up together under the heavy sleeping furs on the bed.

She said it when Jon found her beside the huge oven in the kitchens one afternoon, charming the cook into giving her a beef hand pie since she’d missed lunch.

She’d said it as they sat together, just last night, in the Lord’s private sitting room, sipping mead and enjoying the roaring fire in the hearth beside them. Jon was poring over ledgers and Val sat idly stroking Ghost’s fur.

“Come, my Lady,” said Jon, grinning as he held out the towel. “Stay in their any longer and you’ll turn into a prune.”

“A _warm _prune,” she said, pushing back into the deeper part of the tub, batting the surface of the water to splash Jon. “Join me Lord Snow.”

He was sorely tempted. “I would love to,” he admitted, “but so many less pleasant tasks demand my time.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be any sort of wife if I left my Lord husband to suffer alone,” she sighed, adopting an affected approximation of a southron accent.

She stood, steam rising off her body, drops of water sliding down her skin. Before this lovely sight convinced him to abandon _all _of his morning responsibilities, Jon wrapped her in the towel, pulling her in close for a kiss.

After breakfast, Jon and Val walked arm and arm around the walls of Winterfell. A light snow had been falling for a few days and was starting to accumulate on the rolling green hills surrounding the castle. Though the Ironmen still held the neck against Roose Bolton and his son, and Moat Caillin had never been taken from the south, Jon was worried.

With the Wintertown still largely abandoned, Jon had commanded that as much earth as possible be tilled into cropland. The smallfolk that remained could easily shelter in Winterfell should they come to a siege, Jon thought, as long as there was enough food. As long as they could defend the walls. They passed some young men drilling at the archery butts. They were doing alright—not great, but alright. Val’s brow creased as she watched them critically. Jon paused, waiting for her to speak, but she said nothing.

Jon frowned. It wasn’t like Val to avoid speaking her mind. He didn’t like it. He let her stew in her thoughts until they passed a group of five boys fletching arrows some time later in a guard shed by the gates.

“M’lord,” one said hastily when he saw Jon, stopping his work and bowing his head. The others followed suit.

“As you were, lads,” said Jon, still growing accustomed to having his commands followed. “I’m just here to watch you work.” Jon’s eyes flicked to Val, who was literally chewing her lip. He knew her resolve was cracking, so all he had to do was wait. She remained silent, however, eyes down at her shoes. Eventually, Jon gave up, thanked the boys, and steered Val back out into the yard.

“That’s wrong,” she blurted. _Finally_.

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re fletching ‘em wrong,” she said. “It’s not your archers. Well, they’re not great neither, but it’s mostly the arrows.”

“Then show them,” Jon insisted. He was fair with a bow, but fletching arrows had never been a part of his duties on the Wall. “Show me.”

She shook her head. Jon gripped her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Val pushed Jon’s hand away, looking angry. “Don’t be stupid, Lord Snow. They don’t trust me. They won’t listen to a…wildling.”

“Val,” said Jon quietly, “you’re right. They don’t trust you. But I need them to.”

She still looked mutinous, so he continued. “When what remained of the free folk passed through the Wall, I know you all felt like you’d escaped the true danger for relative safety. In some ways, that’s true, but you landed in a whole other mess down here. I need every person inside Winterfell to be of one mind or the castle is going to crack like an egg when this Bastard of Bolton gets here.”

As he talked, Jon grabbed her elbow and steered her back toward the guard shed.

The boys jumped to attention again. “M’lord.”

Jon picked up an arrow, examining the fletching. “We’ve been by the archery butts, and these arrows are not flying true.” He indicated his wife. “Lady Val has kindly offered to show us all how to fletch properly.”

Predictably, the boys looked sullen. “Beggin’ m’lord’s pardon, we know how to fletch arrows.”

Jon raised his eyebrows. “Prove it,” he said. He indicated the pile of feathers. “Lady Val, if you’d be so kind as to fletch me ten arrows.”

Val adjusted her skirts and sat down on a bench, bracing her feet against the hard packed earth. She pulled a few piles of supplies toward herself, examining some of the arrow shafts by holding each one up and squinting down its length.

“And you,” said Jon to the boy who’d spoken. “Let’s see who can fletch ten arrows fastest.” Disgruntled, the boy sat down opposite Val, forehead sweating despite the chill of the morning. “And…” Jon paused, “go!”

He couldn’t help admire the way Val’s fingers flew, selecting feathers and notching them into the arrows as if she were born doing it. Jon would have been quite content to watch her sure, nimble fingers all day, but in what seemed like no time at all, she slapped down the final arrow and yelled, “Done!”

Jon glanced at her competitor, who flung down the arrow he was working on—only his fourth—in frustration. “Just because she finished faster don’t mean they’re better,” he muttered.

Jon cast an appraising eye over the lad. “True.”

So it went that they’d harangued the best archer available to shoot all twenty arrows, without telling him whose were whose. He fired off the twenty shots, and hit the target with all ten of Val’s arrows, and only two of the other boy’s.

“What’s your name, lad?” asked Jon.

“Herm,” he said, eyes downcast. “M’lord.”

Jon clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go learn something together, Herm.”

Jon, Herm, and the rest of the boys listened intently to Val as she explained how she’d been taught to fletch arrows. Though she’d clearly stung their pride, to their credit the boys paid close attention and picked up her lessons fairly quickly.

“When did you learn that?” Jon asked her later as they returned to the castle.

“Mance wasn’t one for wasting capable hands.” Val shrugged. Jon watched her closely as her eyes flitted around the walls. Her hands passed restlessly over each other; she chewed her lip. Jon liked to think he was starting to get to know Val, but she kept so much to herself. _You know nothing, Jon Snow, _Ygritte whispered coyly in his ear. Her shade was right, he was certain of it.

Val was certainly making the most of her time at Winterfell. She seemed to like Jon well enough, and certainly the comforts of a castle pleased her—but Jon knew she wasn’t truly comfortable here. Or rather, she wasn’t comfortable with being comfortable. The first time one of the castle servants had come in before dawn to stoke the fire in their chambers, Val had nearly scalped the poor man. It was, in fact, the morning after their first night together. Jon had been woken from a deep slumber to the sounds of terrified screams—Val had apparently heard their chamber door open and assumed some sort of attack. She’d admitted that it was hard for her to sleep without a knife close to hand, and without waiting a blink she’d grabbed the blade from beneath her pillow and sent it spinning through the air, pinning the servant’s cap to the wall behind him. He’d screamed blue murder, wood tumbling from his arms as he ran from the room.

He may not know much, but he was learning. Val was too proud to ask for what she needed, too prickly to appreciate Jon offering it to her. He knew she hated bedmaids trailing after her, helping her dress and fussing over the state of her hair. Even the sight of them timidly offering to help her do up the laces on her bodice had her positively seething, so one evening Jon had offered to dismiss them.

“_Fine,_” she’d snapped, standing up from the dinner table. “Since I’m no proper southron wife, I don’t _deserve _to have help like every other lady in your precious kneeler castle. Why don’t you just send me out to sleep in the stable, _my Lord._” She’d stormed off and not spoken to Jon for nearly two days.

So, Jon knew at this moment that Val was crawling out of her skin, wanting solitude. Freedom. Wanting to be somewhere with trees and rushing water and no walls. Wanting to see the open sky. He could hardly point this out, however, so instead he said, “I think Ghost needs to hunt,” and excused himself without further ado. What Val did next was her business. 

Alone, beyond the walls of Winterfell, Jon crouched by the wolf’s head, threading his gloved fingers through his thick white fur, remembering the day he’d found the little pup alone in the woods. “Do you remember?” Jon murmured. “You were off by yourself. Theon said you’d die quicker than all the others. I loved you straight away.” Ghost’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, red eyes warm and knowing. Jon thought the wolf understood. Then, the beast tensed, muscles quivering as he caught a scent on the chill air. He turned and bounded off into the wood.

Jon returned to his study alone, to find Maester Redd hovering nervously by the door. Redd was a young man, and he seemed alright. He was sharp as knife, and quite friendly, albeit a bit anxious. Redd always seemed like a bow string about to snap. Seeing him puttering about the rookery was hard for Jon, who couldn’t help but remember his own boyhood learning sums and tongues at Maester Luwin’s elbow.

“Good afternoon, Maester Redd,” said Jon, opening the door to the study. “Care to come in?”

“Yes, please, My Lord.”

Jon had barely closed the door behind them before Redd pulled a letter from a pocket within his robes. Mutely, the young Maester handed Jon the letter with trembling fingers. Jon made note of the royal seal, the crimson wax of Cersei’s lioness sigil snapped cleanly in half.

_My Lord of Bolton,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. You’ve served the Iron Throne well in the matter of the Stark rebellion, and I sincerely pray that your prize won’t be too hard to restore. I understand the Greyjoy boy sacked the castle quite aggressively, but I know the people of the North will be overjoyed to have your strong hand setting it to rights. _

_While I have full faith in your ability to return the North to the King’s peace and squash the designs of the pretender and traitor, Stannis, I must needs remain here in King’s Landing and will be unable to attend the joyous wedding of your son Ramsay. _

_I’m afraid that with my father’s untimely passing, matters here are far too unsettled to permit me to journey North at this time. _

_Perhaps, come spring and the end of the war, your valiant son and his lovely young bride will wish to come to court for a visit. _

_King Tommen wishes to convey his best wishes to Ramsay and his future bride, Lady Arya Stark _

_Sincerely,  
Cersei Lannister  
Light of the West   
& Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms_

Jon read the letter several times, dissecting it sentence by sentence for any possible information.

_Arya, _he thought. _Little sister._ Jon had tried so hard not to think of her fate over the past several months. All he’d learned of the War of Five Kings from Stannis had been that both his half-sisters were rumored captive in King’s Landing. However, as Stannis had bluntly stated, Arya was presumed dead as no one had reported seeing her hearing of her since Eddard Stark had lost his head. If this letter was to be believed, though, his little sister was on her way North even now. For so long, he’d had to push her from his mind: The Watch takes no part.

But his watch was ended, now, and his sister was on her way North to wed a monster, if even half the rumors about Ramsay Bolton were true. He had to do something.

“My Lord?” Redd prompted. Jon startled—he’d forgotten the other man was there beside his desk.

“Sorry, Maester,” Jon replied, reaching for a fresh parchment. His hand flew as he wrote a missive of his own. “Here,” said Jon a few quiet moments later. “Send this to His Grace King Stannis on the Wall. Immediately.”

Redd bowed deeply, took the letter and fled Jon’s study. Jon sat there alone, watching the candle stub burn lower and lower, head full of thoughts of his little sister.

_Arya’s alive._


End file.
